Chapter 8
McCormick ducked quickly into the entryway of the main house to wait out the initial downpour, shaking the water from his hair and cursing the weather. The damn rain wasn't supposed to be here until tonight and Hardcastle was going to have his ass for not getting all of the fertilizer down in time. It's not like he wasn't already walking on thin ice with the judge and his lingering suspicions; he certainly didn't need to fall behind on his chores, too. Still, he might as well tell Hardcastle now rather than wait for him to find out on his own. He figured the old guy would be slightly less angry if he was at least upfront about it.
Making sure that he had finished dripping, McCormick started toward the den, and only then noticed that the double doors were closed. While not unheard of, that was a little bit unusual, and anything unusual was making him nervous these days. He reached the doors and waited quietly outside, listening. He didn't really like spying on the judge like this, but he also didn't want to get blindsided by anything that might pop up during this particular case. He could hear Hardcastle's voice from inside, but no one else. And, since there was also no visiting car parked in the drive, it seemed a safe assumption that the judge was talking on the phone. He leaned closer, almost pressing his ear to the door.
"No, Frank, I haven't talked to him about it yet. The damn thing just came in the morning mail and McCormick's been out in the yard. To tell you the truth, I don't even know what I'm gonna say to him."
What the hell is going on now? McCormick thought, as he waited for Harper's side of the conversation to stop. He wanted Hardcastle to say more, to give him more clues.
"No, nothing came but the tape," Hardcastle responded. "I'll bring it down to you later to check for prints, but I'll be surprised if anything shows up." Again, Hardcastle paused to listen.
"Didn't recognize the other voice, so I'm pretty sure it's not anyone I talked to the other day at the track. But it's definitely McCormick he's talking to, and I really don't like the sound of the conversation."
Hardcastle's voice took on a saddened tone. "It looks like I might have been wrong about the kid, Frank. I think maybe he's been playing me all along. I probably should've let you take him in yesterday."
McCormick tried to swallow around the lump that was suddenly in his throat, and wondered what to do. What in the hell had been on that tape to finally seal his fate? And would there be any way to undo the damage now? Surely, something could be done; after all, he really was innocent.
His brain was still trying to decide the best course of action when his heart took control and he found himself barging into the den.
"Why don't you just tell him to send a patrol car for me right now?" McCormick said icily, his fear and anger combining to cause him to practically demand that which he wanted most to avoid.
Hardcastle covered the mouthpiece briefly and growled the first thing that came to mind. "Don't tempt me." He returned his attention to the phone. "I gotta go, Frank. No, don't do anything right now. I'll call you later when I make up my mind."
By the time he watched Hardcastle return the receiver to the cradle, McCormick was regretting his entrance to the den. "Judge…."
Hardcastle glared up at McCormick with narrowed, steel blue eyes. "You make a habit of eavesdropping on my private conversations, McCormick?"
"No," McCormick answered, not denying his guilt in this particular instance.
Hardcastle smile inwardly. For all the whining and moaning he heard from McCormick on a daily basis, he liked the fact that the kid knew when not to make excuses. There were definitely things about this one he would miss. "So you wanna tell me what's different about this time?" he finally asked.
"Just add it to the list of charges, Hardcase," McCormick responded. "You wanna tell me what was on the damned tape?"
"Sit down," Hardcastle directed.
McCormick stared a moment, wanting to argue on principle with being ordered about like a dog, but knowing it was useless. Besides, he wanted to know about the tape. And, he actually wanted to sit down. He dragged one of the armchairs closer to the judge's desk and sat.
"Now you wanna tell me what was on the damned tape?"
"Actually, hotshot, I thought maybe you could tell me. I'm giving you one last chance to tell me what's going on. What are you involved in?"
McCormick slumped back into the chair; this was worse than he thought. He had been prepared for Hardcastle to ask—again—whether or not he was involved in anything, but he hadn't been prepared for such a blunt indication that the question on the judge's mind was not 'if' but 'what'. Damn.
"I'm not involved in anything, Judge," he answered wearily.
"On the outside chance that you haven't already been lying to me, McCormick, I'm gonna suggest that you not start now."
The cold words pierced into McCormick's heart. Apparently, indefinitely was going to end sooner than he had expected. "I—- " He faltered, swallowed hard, and began again.
"I'm not lying, Hardcastle. Not now, not before. Whatever is on the tape isn't true. I want to—" He paused again, and rephrased his thought. "Could I hear it?"
Hardcastle stared into the dejected blue eyes and wondered briefly if those eyes were really capable of the level of deceit the tape implied. He just didn't know anymore. Without further comment, he reached out and pressed the play button.
"So what's the problem, Skid? You're almost ten thousand short on our agreement."
"I'm working on it. It won't be long now."
"And is that asshole judge still gonna be watching your back by the time you come up with enough cash?"
"I don't plan on being around long enough for it to be a problem."
"We're still operating on a timeline here, you know, Skid. You said it would only be two or three weeks. It's been almost twice that."
"I know. But Hardcastle's the biggest donkey to ever walk the earth. I'll get it done, then you get me out."
"That's the deal. But only one more week, Skid, or the price goes up."
"I'll take care of it."
"Good. Then I'll take care of him."
The tape had been silent for several long seconds before McCormick spoke. "That's not… I mean, I didn't… That wasn't…"
"Glad to see it's at least difficult for you to bullshit me, McCormick," Hardcastle said harshly. It was hard to argue with the evidence of the recording, though Hardcastle had watched McCormick closely as the tape played, and he would've sworn the kid was honestly surprised by what he was hearing. Just surprised it was recorded, more likely, he thought.
"Judge!"
Hardcastle wasn't impressed with the young man's righteous indignation. "Don't 'judge' me," he shot back. "You think you've got some kind of reasonable explanation for that?"
"The tape was doctored," McCormick pronounced solemnly.
"You disappoint me, McCormick. I thought you could do better than that."
"I could," McCormick answered slowly, straining not to give in to the anger coursing through him, "if I was trying to make up a lie. The truth is easier, but hardly ever as exciting."
The judge paused for a moment, somehow liking that answer. He gave himself a mental shake; he didn't want to be pulled back into McCormick's charm. "So that's not you on there?"
"Of course it's me, Hardcase, but I didn't really say those things. I mean, not like that. The tape's a fake."
"And just who do you think would do something like that?"
"If I knew the answer to that, we could've put an end to this thing a long time ago." McCormick had barked out the answer, but the back of his mind tickled with a recent memory. He knew it would come back to him eventually, when he was less distracted, though he wasn't sure when that would be.
On the lookout for even the slightest indication of deception, Hardcastle stared at him with open disbelief. "What are you keeping from me, McCormick?"
"Nothing, Judge," McCormick replied, surprised to realize he had given anything away. "I'm just trying to figure out who I said things to that could be turned into that tape."
"Who's the other guy? That might be the logical place to start."
"I don't know."
When the judge simply continued to stare, McCormick repeated the statement.
"I don't know, Judge. What would be the point of keeping it from you now? If I really had been planning anything, I obviously wouldn't be able to pull it off now."
"You could still protect your friend."
"He's not my friend. I don't know who he is."
"How much money were you supposed to pay?"
"I don't know."
"Has he been paid in full now?"
"I don't know."
"When was this tape made?"
"I don't know."
"What was the plan for your escape?"
"I don't know."
"Where were you gonna go?"
"I don't know."
"And what was supposed to happen to me get you out of here? I end up hurt or dead?"
"I don't… No!" Surprised by the question, McCormick was unable to maintain the dull monotone response. He wouldn't have the judge believe he would hire someone to hurt him… or worse. "Judge, I would never do that!"
"So what was the plan?" Hardcastle insisted.
"I don't know! Nothing! There is no plan!"
"I told you this is your last chance to come clean with me, McCormick."
"And I told you I haven't done anything, Hardcastle. I can't tell you what I don't know. Just get Frank back on the phone and get him out here because this is pointless." McCormick was rising from his seat as he spoke, but Hardcastle stopped him with his words.
"We're not done here, McCormick."
Though he was new to the judge's routine, McCormick had learned quickly to recognize the no-nonsense tone when he heard it. He wasn't sure what Hardcastle could do that was worse than putting him in jail, but he didn't want to find out. He sat.
"I want to know who that conversation reminded you of, kiddo."
McCormick almost smiled. Had he been asked, he would've said he hated the immature nickname Hardcastle had hung on him. But now, in this moment, he appreciated the brief flicker of familiarity.
He pulled himself back to the question. "I don't know, Judge. I swear, I'll tell you when I figure it out, but right now, I just don't know."
Hardcastle cursed himself inwardly. Why did he want so badly to believe this kid when every piece of evidence pointed to his guilt? After a moment, he found his voice.
"You know, McCormick, for someone who claims to want to work this out, you have been very little help over the last few weeks. I'd think you would try harder to give me the information I want."
"I can't try any harder," McCormick complained. "I've given you everything I have. Besides, in my own defense, I haven't really had all that much time to be helpful. I mean, the first couple of days you didn't even tell me what was going on, then you threw me in jail for a week, and then you kept me practically a prisoner at the estate for another week after that. I don't know when you thought I was going to be doing all this helping you're talking about. But I've said it before and I'll say it again: just tell me what you want." The edge in his voice revealed the strain McCormick was feeling.
Hardcastle smiled grimly. "You sound a little worried there, McCormick."
"Worried? Judge, I'm scared to death. At first, it seemed like this was dragging out forever, but now…now it seems they're through playing around. Every day it gets a little worse, Hardcastle. First, you get that crazy story about San Diego. The next day, your house gets ripped off. Then they find your stolen car parked in front of my old apartment. And today, this tape. Judge, they're backing you into a corner that I can't get out of.
"I would do anything to stay out of prison, Hardcase, but we both know the road we're on doesn't lead anywhere else unless we figure out who's behind all this. You tell me why I would lie or keep things from you?"
"To prevent further charges," came Hardcastle's immediate response. "This tape indicates a clear case of conspiracy, and could probably be used to help tie you back to all the robberies. That adds up to a lot more time than just serving your remaining three years."
McCormick's lips drew together in a thin, angry line. "You're right, Judge; three years will be a walk in the park. Hell, I don't know why I didn't think of that sooner." He rose quickly from his chair, not about to be stopped this time. "I'm gonna go change." He turned toward the door.
"I want your keys," Hardcastle said from behind the retreating back. He watched McCormick's shoulders slump, though whether it was because of the final insult to his integrity, or because the man had been planning a quick getaway, he didn't know. And he didn't care. Much.
McCormick didn't turn to face the voice. He reached into the pocket of his cut-off jeans to retrieve his keys, then threw them angrily on the floor at his feet. Without a word, he stormed out of the den and out of the house, slamming both doors behind him.
00000
McCormick sat on the sofa in the gatehouse wondering just what the hell was going on. Hours had passed since he had trudged over here from the main house, ignoring the rain that soaked his body, and cursing Hardcastle every step of the way. He had showered and changed clothes, packed his meager belongings, and called Barbara Johnson to make arrangements for her to come get his things in a few days. She had been disbelieving about the sudden turn of events, but then, she had liked Hardcastle almost from the beginning. He had told her to be sure and ask the judge about the St. Jude medallion that still hadn't turned up, and he would have to remember to ask Hardcastle to keep an eye out for it. Not that he would be needing it for several years, of course, but he hated to think of it lost forever.
Lost forever. Okay, there were a couple of words he could've gone all day without really focusing on, because that's exactly the way he felt. He had found something here at Gull's Way. He couldn't name it, couldn't define it, and sure as hell wouldn't admit to it, but it was there just the same. And now, whatever it was, he had lost it.
No, that wasn't quite right. He hadn't lost it; it had been taken from him. He could feel the anger burning inside of himself, and was surprised at its intensity. Surprised to realize that the prison sentence looming in front of him suddenly seemed a thousand times worse because of what he was leaving behind.
McCormick looked around the simple elegance of the gatehouse and remembered distinctly his first night in residence. God, it seemed like a lifetime had gone by in less than two months. He had been so scared that night, and so angry. He had run his mouth pretty much non-stop to hide his emotions, though he realized now Hardcastle had undoubtedly seen right through his act.
He wondered if the judge had also known that he never intended to stay. Not that he would run; he would never do that. But he had figured they might not actually catch Martin Cody, and if they didn't, he would find a way to convince the judge that he should be released from his commitment. And if they did catch Cody, well…he had figured he would do the Tonto routine for a little while—put in his time—then find a way to become someone Hardcastle would want to get rid of. Getting sent back to Quentin in the process hadn't been part of his plan. And the idea that he might actually want to stay had never crossed his mind.
McCormick leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands. He felt the despair raging through him like a physical pain, and a small groan escaped his lips. He wanted to run; he felt that desire almost as strongly as he felt the despair. But, sitting in this gatehouse, overwhelmed beyond reason by the loss of Hardcastle's trust, he knew that he would never be able to make himself go. He cursed himself for that perceived weakness, and he cursed Hardcastle for not recognizing it.
He raised his head, a small grin playing on his face. He couldn't believe the old guy had taken his keys. Besides being insulting, it was completely useless. Had the donkey forgotten who he was dealing with? If he wanted to go, he'd go, and not having keys would hardly even slow him down. The judge certainly knew that, so he was probably just trying to make a point.
McCormick shook his head uncertainly and stretched out on the sofa. He still didn't know what the hell was going on, but he might as well be comfortable while he waited to figure it out.
00000
Milton Hardcastle shifted uncomfortably in the back seat of his recently recovered Corvette. Sitting here in the car, in a dark garage, with a blanket pulled around his shoulders, a pillow behind his head, and a .45 revolver within reach, he thought he had quite probably gone completely around the bend. This was, without question, the most ridiculous thing he had done in a very long time.
But McCormick had been right. This situation was rushing toward an inevitable conclusion: the kid was going back to prison. He had seen the desperation in McCormick's eyes when the damning words came from the tape recording and the young man had realized he was out of options. Hardcastle knew from long years of experience that desperation of that magnitude made a person want to bolt from whatever situation they were in, and he believed strongly that you could tell a lot from how a person reacted to that urge. An innocent man wouldn't run, a guilty one always would. He was prepared to wait out the night in the Corvette to determine once and for all just which category Mark McCormick fell into.
00000
McCormick bolted straight up on the sofa, the face of Lenny Archer etched in his mind. Jeez, how could he have forgotten? It had only been a few days ago, but, honestly, he had never really expected it to be one of his friends, so it just hadn't registered in his conscious mind.
He rose slowly to his feet, feeling the aches and pains of sleeping all night on a sofa rather than a bed. "I'm getting too old for this," he muttered, as he stretched the kinks out of his back.
He glanced at his watch: not even six o'clock. Under normal circumstances, he would've climbed the stairs, thrown himself into bed, and gone promptly back to sleep. However, since he had fully expected to wake up behind bars this morning, today seemed the furthest thing from normal, so he headed for the bathroom instead.
After brushing his teeth, he cast a critical eye on the face reflected in the mirror. He thought he should shower and maybe he'd feel more ready to face this day, but more than anything, he wanted to know why he was still here. What was going on in Hardcastle's mind, and what should he expect next?
Without further hesitation, he headed out the door. No matter what the judge was thinking, he needed to tell him about Archer. It might be the very definition of too little, too late, but he had to try. And he was still here, after all, so McCormick allowed himself a small glimmer of hope as he crossed the lawn.
As he approached the front of the main house, McCormick heard the telephone begin to ring. When it hadn't been answered by the third ring, he began to get worried. Had something happened to Hardcastle? That would explain why he was still at the estate instead of a jail cell, but it certainly was not the explanation he wanted. He burst through the front door without bothering to knock. He heard the answering machine pick up the phone call, and then heard Frank Harper's voice. He considered answering, but decided there was no sense alerting the detective to his unfounded fears.
"Judge?" he shouted. "Where are you?" He had taken the first two steps toward the second floor when he recognized the sound of running shower water. Relieved, he headed back to the den, intending to pick up and take Harper's message personally. The words he heard coming from the machine changed his mind instantly.
"…another burglary last night, in Brentwood. We found a medallion in the garage, some kind of religious-looking thing, has McCormick's fingerprints on it. Looks like the game is finally up. When you guys get back to the house, call me and let me know if you want me to send someone after him or if you want to bring him in yourself. And, Milt…I'm really sorry."
Horrified, McCormick stared at the machine long after Harper's voice had stopped. Whatever had prompted Hardcastle to give him one more chance, this message was sure as hell going to change his mind. He reached out instinctively to erase the tape, but paused with his finger on the button. Erasing the message wasn't going to change anything, except to make it worse. Harper was still going to have his medallion, and the judge was still going to find out about it eventually. Trying to cover it up was only going to make him seem guiltier…if that was possible.
He moved away from the answering machine and thought quickly. Hardcastle would be finished with his shower before long, and then he would be out of time. McCormick thought it highly unlikely the judge would want to hear about Archer—or anything else—once he found out about the medallion. If he stayed now, McCormick knew that he would be back in Quentin before the weekend was out, Archer would be off scot-free, and he would never know why all of this was happening to him. That was something he couldn't allow to happen. If he was going back inside, he wanted to know why.
McCormick reached into the top desk drawer to grab a note pad, and saw Hardcastle's keys lying there. It occurred to him that the cops were going to be looking for him very soon, and the Coyote would stand out like a sore thumb. Even the Corvette would be easy enough to spot, but the pickup…. He snatched the keys, hating himself even as he did it.
He grabbed a pen and scribbled a quick note:
Frank left you a message, Judge, but it's not what you think. I swear, it wasn't me. I'm going to find out who it is. I hope. I'm not running out on you, I just have to check something out. I'm sorry to leave like this, but I'll be back soon. I promise.
Before he could change his mind, McCormick picked up the note pad, threw it on the staircase as he left the house, and sprinted for the driveway.
He thought briefly about disabling the remaining two cars, but it seemed sort of pointless. Hardcastle had the entire L.A. police department at his disposal, so keeping him from personally joining in the hunt would accomplish nothing other than pissing him off even further. McCormick decided he could live without that. He jumped into the truck, started it up, slammed it into gear, and tore down the drive.
As he paused to check the traffic before pulling onto the Coast Highway, he cast a longing glance into the rearview mirror, taking one last look at the estate behind him. He knew he wouldn't be returning, and though he thought he had come to grips with that idea last night, he still found his heart filled with a sadness that he would never have expected. But he had no choice, so he dismissed the unwanted thoughts and pointed the truck south, hoping Hardcastle would talk to him just one more time and give him a chance to explain.